Darkness Falls - DS Aector McAvoy Series 0.5 (2020)

by David Mark

Shane bristles. He doesn’t like the big man’s tone. “She’s mine,” he says, petulantly. “She was a gift.”

  Sergeant Aector McAvoy looks back at the mess on the bed. Sees. Rags. Torn silk. Empurpled, ivory limbs, swollen as if drowned. And red. So much red….

  His hands tremble as he reaches for his radio. He pauses, forcing himself to breathe. To take shallow breaths. To stay professional. To do what must be done.

  He feels the reek of her climb inside him. Tiny particles of violated flesh and spilled blood flood his mouth and nose.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the words come out in a rush. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Beside him, Shane Cadbury puts a blood-smeared hand on his blue sleeve. “It wasn’t me,” he says, moodily. “She was a present, I told you. Can you go now? Can you go ….?”

  McAvoy keeps the tremble from his voice as he speaks.

  “Sir, this is Sergeant McAvoy. We’ve found her. Found Ella.”

  Shane scowls: a toddler robbed of a favoured toy. She’s mine,” he begins. “Can’t I keep her …?”

  And then Police Constable Poyser draws his baton. Yells, all spit and rage. Comes for Shane like a crazy man, swinging wildly, promising to kill him, to kill him properly, to put him down and keep him down and pound his bones to dust.

  “No,” says Shane’s new friend, Aector: wrapping a big left arm around him and turning his back on the police officer. “No, you don’t get to have him...”

  Shane listens, cosseted in the comfortable, warm embrace of the nice police officer.

  Listens, as the blows fall like rain.

  1

  It’s Sunday, February 7, 2012.

  11.58pm.

  The car park on the north bank of the Humber Bridge – the Christian side of the river.

  Owen Lee, Press Association Hull and East Riding Correspondent, gathered like a fist in the driver’s seat of a 1986 Vauxhall Cavalier: Elastoplast-brown. Not a classic. Not vintage. Just knackered, and old.

  Me.

  I’m not crying. I want to. I’d fucking love to. There’s a peach-stone in my throat and cold grit in my eyes, but the tears won’t fall, so I just pull anguished faces and rub my face with my gloved hands.

  The dark crescent beneath my right eye sings with pain as I jab my thumb into it. I do it again. And again.

  The car radio gave up years ago, so I’m listening to the tinny sound of Johnny Cash on a portable CD player, circa 2001. I don’t want the violation of putting the ear-phones in my ears, so I’ve left the crappy square of plastic and wire on the front passenger seat, sitting on a mound of takeaway boxes and old newspapers; the cords dribbling over the edge of the seat - teaching the weeping willow how to cry.

  I’m cold. The heater’s been broken for years. Normally would I sit and bitch about the East Yorkshire weather, but tonight the cold is almost reassuring. The goose pimples on my skin are a physical reminder of the unpleasantness of it all; the sheer intolerability of life improperly lived.

  Not long now.Minutes, maybe. Then the rush of air and the smash of water and the absolute perfect nothingness.

  I purse my lips and push another lungful of pain into the air. Each breath becomes a cloud, gathering as steam from a kettle, then disappearing into ribbons and nothingness.

  I look at my watch. Seconds from midnight, just like the whole human race. I realise I’m not going to die on February 7. I won’t make it to the bridge in time. It’ll have to happen on February 8. The eighth day, of the second month, of 2012. Rain is forecast. Dark skies and high winds. Snow’s on the way. The trial is starting at Hull Crown. Ella Butterworth’s killer, Shane Cadbury: sticking to his not-guilty plea despite all the evidence to the contrary.

  I try harder, desperate for meaning. It must matter. It must!

  Three-and-a-half weeks since Jessica left me. Two-and-a-bit months since we flushed the clotted lumps of our child down the toilet in a mush of reds: of sodden tissue and swirling water. Couple of years since Kerry stuck a needle in her arm, and a dagger through Dad’s heart. Just over a year since the monster in Mam’s tit ate her up, pulled out her hair and wrapped her in a pine box that weighed less on my shoulders than the burden pressing against my chest.

  Three months until my 30th birthday.

  February 8.

  Just a day.

  An Aquarius.

  The day I’m going to die.

  I STEP out onto the tarmac and a sudden gust of frosty wind fills the car and blows my scarf up over my face. The wind is stirring the leaves and bullying the trees ringing the car park, muffling the roar and rush of the occasional car moving across the bridge overhead.

  As I straighten myself up and adjust my clothes, the hunger in my gut reaches a tendril towards my throat, and I belch, sourly: my mouth filling with the taste of bile and bitterness. I’ve barely eaten in weeks, and sickness has become a constant. I vomit at thoughts I don’t like; at new situations and pressing engagements. It’s a nervous condition, so the doctors say. I’ve disassociated myself from my own body. My gut belongs to my head, and my head doesn’t belong to me. I wipe my mouth, and spit.

  A few street lamps are still on, casting a sickly sodium glow over the dozens of empty parking spaces. I’m parked close to the woods, near the admin offices. 12 hours ago the place would have been buzzing, despite the weather. The Humber Bridge Country Park. The Eastern edge of Yorkshire. Kingston-upon-Hull. Hull. ‘ull, to its friends, if it had any. A city hungover from the days when it was the world’s biggest fishing port, and metal trawlers would leave St Andrew’s Quay to travel to distant waters and return laden with a silver bounty that would feed the nation, and make fat men wealthier. All terraced streets and neighbourliness, kids in bare feet. Clouds from the smokehouses mingling with the damp and the fog; clinging to donkey jackets and headscarves and trickling into swampy lungs. Lads stinking of skate and haddock with a wedge of cash in their pockets. All long gone, now. Those times that brought wealth and loss. When lives were snuffed out by a wave and wives dreaded the sound of the chaplain’s feet on the cobbles. The houses remain, but the city is on its arse. Empty houses, smashed windows. Lorries belching fumes and children who can’t read. New office blocks standing empty and shopping streets boarded up or burning down. Yesterday’s generation pining for the days of the fishing industry the way a battered wife yearns for the return of her abuser and forgets his sins. A journalist’s paradise. A murder a month, and some of them fabulous. Schools at the arse-end of the league tables. Hospital bandaged in scaffolds and tarpaulin to try and stop any more roof-tiles striking the patients who huddle in the doorway, sneaking a fag while supporting their frail bodies on the stand of an intravenous drip.

  My city. Trapped in its grip, like a wasp held inside a shot glass, all broken limbs and tinfoil wings, buzzing and striking an invisible barrier, drowning in sticky syrup and fading breath.

  Here, eight miles up the road, it’s a different world. The Country Park. Deep lakes, green with algae and punctured by fallen branches that poke through its surface like so many blades. 50-foot limestone cliffs, dirtied by moss. Well-groomed forests of ash and sycamore, parted like Brylcremed hair with man-made paths and helpful rails. Jess and I used to walk miles in its cosy embrace, holding hands as we ambled between the trees. I can see it now, clear as what’s in front of me. See us laughing. Reciting baby names. Listing holiday destinations and favourite meals. Wrapped up in the bollocks of it all. Me, talking and planning and pretending and unburdening. Her, listening and nodding and pretending, and wishing I was normal and loving that I wasn’t; ever walking on the rice paper and egg-shells of my temper.

  My watch beeps suddenly as night turns into morning.

  It is the day of my death.

  I lock the car and drop the keys into the depths of my pocket, where they find a comfortable spot between my notebook, cigarettes and mobile phone. Johnny Cash is trapped inside the car, still warbling away on the passenger seat, sat proud on a mound of yellowing
newsprint that carries my name.

  I look up at the bridge, then turn my head to the right where the footpath that Jess and me used to take is shrouded in darkness. The woods have no shape. They are just a black mass; all whistling sounds and shaking branches, snapping twigs and falling leaves. They hold no danger for the damned. A man in pursuit of his own death doesn’t fear ambush.

  Turn, and head towards the forest. Even as I duck beneath the dark, tangled branches I ask myself what I’m doing. I’ve played out this journey countless times. I’m supposed to be walking towards the footpath that runs along the bridge. I’m supposed to be smoking a cigarette and counting my steps and putting distance between myself and the shoal of sharp-toothed sadnesses that swim behind me. Instead I’m walking away from the water, ducking under branches, crunching over damp wood.

  In moments the woods have swallowed me up. I can hear my boots rustling through the wet leaves and keep a hand on the rail as the footpath starts to descend. The forest is black and cold, and I can sense eyes upon me; hear the scrabbling claws of the creatures who live in the dark. I feel as though I am walking inside myself.

  My footsteps are becoming heavy, my coat starting to stoop my shoulders. Despite myself, I’m starting to feel nervous. My eyes are watering, forcing me to close them for longer and longer moments, inviting slumber, wrapping sleep around myself as a blanket against the cold.

  I am lost now, lost in the darkness. I reach out my hand and feel the knobbled bark of a tree trunk. I suddenly realise my feet are wet, that water has soaked past the lip of my boots. I splash backwards, onto soft ground. My right boot slips and my knee hits the wet ground, hard. My teeth bang together and I mash the side of my tongue. I can taste blood. I spit on the forest floor, raising a gloved finger to my mouth. Even through the leather I can feel the wetness.

  Now the tears flow. My throat coughs up a lump and I spit it on the forest floor as salt-water runs down my cheeks.

  I don’t sob. Instead I hold myself still, fists balled, teeth locked, as the tears pour down my face.

  Crying for what I am, for what lives within me. For all I have failed to do.

  My cheeks feel raw as the wind slices against the wetness and I wipe my face dry with the back of a glove. I screw up my eyes, peering again into the gloom. There are vague shapes, but nothing more. I take a tentative step and realise my boots are now on soft leaves, rather than the hardness of the path. I shuffle forward again and strike something firm. I curse and stop again. My grand gesture, my heroic death, is becoming farce. I need to find myself before I can kill myself. Muttering, I remove my glove and plunge my hand into the pocket of my coat, searching for a light. After foraging through the assorted crap, I grip the Zippo lighter that I’m usually too lazy to fill. I pull it free and spin the wheel. There is a tiny spark but the flame is swallowed by the wind. I curse and cup the lighter with my hand, trying to shield it from the gusts that seem to be growing stronger, whisking the detritus of the night. The flame catches hold but disappears again when I take my hand away. Third time lucky, I think, and then chastise myself for optimism.

  I flip the wheel on the Zippo and there is an explosion of light and power as my world is turned red, orange and vermillion.

  It takes me a moment to realise that the blaze of light was accompanied by sound, and came not from my hand. I hold the lighter aloft, my movements slow and sluggish, as though wading through syrup. Everything has slowed down, become heavy, drugged.

  Inexorably, as though the thought is carrying a burden, I realise I am not alone.

  There are lumps in the darkness, lumps of flesh and bone.

  The shapes become figures, human figures. They are real. More tangible and touchable than my visions.

  And like a face forming in flame, one of the lumps becomes a man. His arm is outstretched, a shadow, a blot of richer darkness against the black. He is holding something in his hand. The other shape is shorter, lower down. A few feet away from where I stand, open mouthed.

  He is sagging slowly, falling like a building, collapsing in on himself. I expect him to shatter on impact as he hits the forest floor.

  Then the standing man is turning, looking at me, as I hold my tiny flame. His arm drops and I hear an intake of breath, and a curse of exclamation as the flame is extinguished. There is another explosion of light and sound and something whistles past my cheek. I jerk my face away but there is a heat that rocks me, and in an instant of adrenaline, wakes my will to live.

  My senses are suddenly alive as the tumblers of understanding start to fall into place and I realise that I am being shot at, alone in the dark; that a stranger is about to rob me of my grand gesture, and end my life in a way I have not condoned.

  I am suddenly very much alive. Alive and angry.

  I have fantasised about my death for so long that my life has become precious to me; the one thing I control and own, and I will not have it defiled by another.

  Instinct and fury take me over and I am suddenly charging forward, lunging at the spot of darkness where I last saw the figure. I roar and leap, arms outstretched, a wounded tiger, and collide with a block of flesh.

  Legs and arms entangle.

  Hot breath, chaos and confusion and a hand pushing against my face.

  We are tumbling now, rolling in the dirt, enmeshed in one another. The man is strong, all wiry muscles beneath the bulk of his clothes. He is on top of me but I have his wrists and we are flailing at one another. He is stronger than me, too strong, and pulls an arm free, bringing his fist down in my face. There is a meaty thud which only angers me further and I bring my knee into his back. He pitches to the side and I roll free, kicking out at the darkness. Then a flash of face, like a sliver of moon, flits by close to my own, a glimmer of snarling white, and there is fist in my gut and I am on my back again, pinned under his weight, gazing up as this stranger throttles me with gloved hands.

  I am lying on another mound of flesh and clothes, fighting for life on a mattress of death.

  My hands scrabble in the mud and dirt, rake through wet leaves as the pressure builds in my throat. His face is close to mine, his mouth open, teeth bared …Then I feel it, hard and metallic.

  Raw, cold power.

  I grab the object with my hand and swing it hard against his head.

  There is a grunt. A moment of incomprehension. Then he slumps forwards and falls to my side.

  And I am on top of him now, astride his chest, holding the gun in my hand, pointing at this stranger’s face as he lays unconscious in the dirt and darkness. I’m panting, breath as heavy as the wind.

  Gripping the gun between hands that don’t shake.

  Hands that feel strangely comfortable around the sturdy handle.

  I look down at the two mounds of skin and cloth. The one I have fought with is still breathing. He is about my age, and scruffy, unshaven, with curly hair. Rough. The other is younger. Spotty and pock-marked. A third eye stares out from the unlined whiteness of his forehead, clotted with blood and matching his lifeless gaze.

  I retire from myself, and allow the thing within me to take over. I see myself search the older man, tentatively pushing a hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

  I pull out a rolled-up freezer-bag of white powder, and a wad of cash, thick as a Bronte.

  In the space of but a moment, my life, and death, everything has changed. Everything! The fates that have thwarted me, for so long pissed on the enthusiasm that used to blaze within me, have interceded at the last, and hauled me back. For as I strolled towards my death, they handed me a chance to change it all. As I prepared to throw myself into oblivion, the world decided it was a more interesting place with me in it. The fates conspired, and handed me all I ever asked for - a fighting chance to change things. I am a man who does not value his life, and who longs for death. I am a man without belief, and unencumbered by conscience. I am a suicidal with a bellyful of rage and regret and agony and misery and so much fucking hate, and now, with a weapo
n. I feel like I’ve found a magic lamp. A man with a gun, a packet of powder and a wad of cash, a man can truly change his stars.

  I look at the gun, slide the clip from the butt, and count out six bullets. Some of the grooves in the clip are empty and I catch the tang of smoke and cordite as I hold it to my face.

  So many memories.

  Each bullet glints in the darkness; a wicked, gold-toothed smile.

  And suddenly I am laughing, laughing in the dark, as I slide the clip back into the gun, and pocket it. I feel around on the ground for a suitable rock, and raise it above my head as the future stretches away like some beautiful white road or a sliver of silver moonlight, promising exotic journeys and a blissful destination.

  The universe has given me six shots at happiness, and I’m going to take them.

  Blessed and pardoned for what I’m going to do.

  I’m not going to waste a shot now.

  I bring the rock down.

  And it begins.

  2

  Aector McAvoy jerks awake: sitting up so quickly that it seems for a moment as if the bed has been travelling at speed before coming to an abrupt stop. He pitches forward, grabbing at nothing; a single word trapped in his throat.

  “No!”

  He claws at the chill, dark air. Raises a big, sweat-greased palm to his forehead. Shivers, gasping for breath.

  “No,” he says, again, as he catches the lingering scent: that trace of spoiled meat and dead lilies; rotten fabrics and sour, unwashed skin.

  He lowers his hand and presses it to his big, bare chest. Feels his heart, banging, banging, thudding against his ribcage like a lunatic nutting the door of a padded cell.

  “Christ,” he whispers, and glances around in the darkness, instinctively afraid that one of the other boarding school boys will report his blasphemy. He swallows, drily, and gets a hold of himself. He’s home. He’s in his own bed. It’s been 15 years since he last slept in the bunks of the posh private school that his mum’s new husband sent him off to when he became an imposition. He’s a grown man. A police officer. A sergeant. Decorated for bravery. He’s a husband. A father. He’s a big, strong man and he doesn’t need to be afraid. And she’s here, beside him, beautiful as sunlight, even in the dark. She pours into him like honey.